


Ghost Story

by hisorako



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater, the guillotine girls
Genre: F/M, Gen, Implied Ghost Sex, and that's all that needs to be said, basically that backstory fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-10 00:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4369643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisorako/pseuds/hisorako
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melissa Moore remembers living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost Story

**Author's Note:**

> My first TGG fic, and I'd like to give a big thank-you to my friend Kristen (tumblr user sobforsirius) for helping to start this incredible fandom.

_(Awake.)_

Wasn’t that what they used to call it, when heavy eyelids fluttered open and breath filled their lungs? She never stopped, but her breaths, tasteless and invisible, fall shallow now, and her chest, pale and cold to the touch, rises in a reluctant, ridiculous imitation of living.

_(Warm hands flitting through her hair, fingers snared in the brown, tangled mess of tendrils once so perfectly kept. His eyes, the blue-grey of the morning before a storm, darkening, and a feral flash of white teeth.)_

Beside her, his limbs entangled with hers, lay a rumpled boy, his face youthful and innocent in the guise of peaceless, false slumber. He’d never been a gentle lover when he was alive - when they were alive. But death changed him, his touch, once demanding and greedy, turned tender and loving and his voice, once loud and arrogant, because subdued and hushed.

_(He’d been more when he was alive.)_

As had she, with a flirtatious grin and runners’ legs that no longer seem to matter. She doesn’t remember dying. She hadn’t known she was dead, not for years and not in this shell of a body that still remembers how to live.

_(The creak of the porch door swinging open, and the ruckus of her dog slipping across the worn wood-paneled floor to meet her, paws skidding every which way. Her mother’s brow, furrowed and weary as she pleaded her not to break curfew again. Endless piles of empty beer bottles from her father’s romps with his best friend Parrish from the part of Henrietta that smacked of sin and the eternal damnation that the preacher always bellowed about.)_

She knows living, and she knows suffering, because aren’t they the same thing? The raven boys would have laughed at that, puffing out their chests and raising their noses high in the air as they cited Socrates or Nietzsche or some other old, dead philosopher. She never made a conscious decision to be with the Aglionby boys, but life was like that. Before she’d had time to stop, she’d been dating one of them and fucking another, and wasn’t that something that they’d do?

_(Whelk whispering in her ear, his bites red and angry as they sing from her neck. Him rising to take a shower, as if to wash off her Henrietta stench, the smell of the mountain air and the crunch of autumn leaves.)_

That bastard. Rage rises within her as she disentangles herself from his best friend, hot indignation closing her throat. She could kill him for planting the idea in Sandra’s mind. Sandra, the bitch. She could slit her throat silently, deadly - all of the gifts she gave her for the love and loyalty she promised.

_(Red lips parted in a laugh. Long hair thrown back, and limbs shaking. Pale, unnatural green eyes tilted up, framed by pale cheeks and sun-kissed legs.)_

There is no sound as she stands, no girlish imprint left in the sheets beside the sleeping boy with bruises on his body and his soul. Nothing to say that she ever existed, and why should there be?

Melissa Moore is a legend, a ghost story - and nothing has ever been truer.

 


End file.
